A lighthouse doesn't chase you. It just keeps shining, trusting that when you're lost, the light will find you.

I was 39 days in. 3,200 miles behind me. And I was done. I had already started planning it out in my head: rent a car, throw the bike in the back, drive home. Nobody had to know I didn't finish. I had crossed the United States. That was enough. Or so I told myself.

But then I crossed into North Carolina. Into the fog. Into those mountains. Her mountains. The same ones she used to load us up in that old RV to go see every summer. And I heard her. Not out loud, but I heard her.

My mom was my lighthouse. Through the abuse. Through the heartbreak. Through all of it, she just kept shining. She never stopped. And even now, even after losing her way too soon, she was still at it.

Still pointing me home.

"Keep pedaling. Don't quit. Come home."

So that's what I did.